Abba-ttoir

Here's a clue to what today's podcast is about... yes that's right you've guessed it an abattoir! *pause* What do you mean you didn't like that joke?  

In my work I occasionally have to visit an abattoir, when I took this job, I was really unsure about about having to do so often to go to there. Before we go this isn't pro or anti beef, this is where beef, leather and pet food come from. I feel people need to know this, we are so used to pre-packaging, it's so bad I notice Tesco are selling frozen omelettes. Though in this case, I'd like to think it's for people who aren't capable make an omelette on their own and not some cynical ploy for making extra cash.

It's important to not stress the cattle. It causes the meat to become tough and lose flavour. This means as short a journey as possible to the abattoir to ensure the minimal amount of stress. The next part is from memory, so I may get a couple of steps the wrong way round.

A cow goes in to what is known as the kill box, is rendered brain dead by a bolt between the eyes, it's then hung up by the back legs, throat slit and the blood is drained. Once this process is complete the numerous stages of dismantling the carcass begins. Horns and hooves are removed, the heads chopped off and intestines and other organs are taken out, here the line split into two, one processing the carcass the other sorting out the organs. The hides are removed and then the tail is taken out. There are platforms that move up and down, one allows staff to cut the carcass in half, with what resembles a giant hacksaw. On another platform there is excess fat some of the fat is cut off by hand. In a distance of about 30 metres, it goes from being a recognisable animal to two large, hanging pieces of meat. In the kill hall there is the is the odd spurt of blood up the side of the white plastic walls, like some cheesy horror film.

Wandering around in white overalls, through the kill hall or walking through chills of half carcasses, it's impossible not to come out with them having stained by something red. Elsewhere there's more dismantling, flanks, bones and offal appear. Tripe disturbs me, the hexagonal looking structure of it, reminds me of a plant or a leaf, but it's not. It's white, and looks like a load of mis-shapen fancy bath mats hanging up to dry.

Outside is where the particularly bad smells are, especially on a warm day. Here is where the other bits come out from the kill line, the literal shit, fat and other material. A lot of this is classed as Category 3; not suitable for human consumption. Here is where your pets come in, Category 3 material can be be used in cat and dog food. Nothing is wasted, even the bones and blood find a use, they can sold off to be made into fertiliser.

There you have it, a trip round an abattoir, I'm always disappointed when I visit because I've still not seen any 70s popstars in their brightly coloured jumpsuits there.

As the legendary Keith Top Of The Pops & His Minor UK Indie Celebrity All-Start Backing Band once sang... Morrissey Will Never Forgive Me.

!

Whisper Words of Wisdom

The room at the hotel has an outside bathroom, 6 or 7 foot high walls for privacy. white tiles on the walls and floor. The toilet and shower are in the half of the bathroom with the covered roof, opposite there is an 18 inch high wall housing a raised flower bed that is pretty much just mud with some unhealthy looking plants that look like they've had too much sun. 

It's 2002 and I'm in the middle of the Indian Ocean on the island of Meerufenfushi, I'd ran away on a last minute two week holiday to get peace to de-stress from dealing with my nitpicking manager who was bullying me at work. I'm nearly at the end of my holiday, it's been amazing, me, the sunshine a couple of trips and sitting reading books in the sun while listening to my Walkman.

If you don't know what a Walkman is, it plays cassettes, it's like a more portable version of a record player that you need headphones for. 

It's about 11pm. I can't sleep, I don't feel too good. Today I know I got a bit too much sun so am feeling a little dehydrated. I'm trying to drink water, but I feel sick. I spend the next few hours not able to concentrate on reading. The fish curry from the buffet clearly didn't agree with me. I end up on the porcelain telephone talking to Huey, Huey and Ralph. The other end isn't happy either, I keep swapping ends on the toilet. 

I feel so wretched, I just want to be better, the previous night I slept badly and got only about two or three hours sleep. I'm exhausted, it's half 2 in the morning, I fly home in 12 hours. I've been listening music because I can think of nothing else to do. I'm sat on the floor of the bathroom watching little green geckos only a few inches in length running along the walls. I say sat, more propped up against. My stomach churns, throwing up leaves me with a minute of feeling on top of the world before the nausea comes flooding back. Part of me is red raw, too ill to sleep, too tired to move. I'm in a horrible elevated mental state where I can't think clearly and I just want to sleep to make it all go away, but I can't and I'm already agitated. Sunstroke and food poisoning, what a combination!

Plonk plonk, plonk plonk... on comes Let It Be by The Beatles. I focus on the music to try and distract myself. Delirium is kicking in, the song feels like a blanket, it makes feel warm and loved, the lyrics start, I start to feel the words make sense to me. I suddenly understand. The whole song, everything makes sense, I start crying uncontrollably, all the time I've got a sensation that I understand! Understand what exactly I couldn't tell you. The song finishes, I play the song a few more times, still crying  feeling wretched and everything in the world makes sense. 

12 hours later I'm on the plane home, 10 hours to London, it's after midnight, my flight to Edinburgh is 7:30am. In the past 48 hours, I've had about 4 hours of sleep, I'm staying awake and hang about in the airport until my flight is due to leave. I am due in at work at 08:30. My twisted sense of having to be reliable and turn up because it's the done thing is in overdrive. Not only is plane an hour late, the airline screw up my and other passengers luggage.  Walk into work at half 9, dressed in the same shorts and t-shirt I'd left the Maldives in, ready to work! The wanky manager isn't happy, the Managing Director is up today and wanky boss is worried that how I'm dressed will reflect badly on him and asks me to go home and get changed. I try and ignore him, go on a wander to catch up workwise, end up talking to the MD and another director who seem amused I actually came into work. Wanky boss walks in says "Ah, excellent, you're going to go home and get changed like I asked" and scurries off. The directors look at each other and laugh at wanky boss. They couldn't give a toss about how I was dressed.

What lessons can we learn from this? 

Holidays are important, nay essential!

Being delirious is great fun on hindsight and at the time.

Do what you think is the right thing at the time, it's better than regretting not doing it.

Don't give in to wanky bosses that pick on you due to their own insecurities. He took me to the pub that night, tired to get me drunk, I had about 5 or 6 drinks, then claimed he had a bottle of vodka, wen to his flat he tried to hide the fact he'd poured me a half glass of vodka and juice to get me really fucked, I cottoned on and poured it into a plant pot. The next day he had a dreadful hangover, I was fine, yet he had a dig at me that I had "Better not be hungover!" 

I got the last laugh though, he eventually got made redundant. WANKER!

Podcast Relaunch

The 'I Drink Tea' podcast is dead. It is wiped from history. In it's place the void will be filled with the Disorgcast!

What''s the difference? It's still going to be around five minutes long, they are going to contain philosophical musings, humour, stories and perhaps the odd tune. The aim is to produce one a week, rehearse before recording, and add in some quality control.

The first one is up and ready to go... (iTunes feed should be up in a day or two).
https://disorgcast.podbean.com/e/disorgcast-1-game-of-jams/

Bunnet Sonnet

The flat cap, sometimes known as 'the bunnet'
Yorkshiremen and pensioners wear them.
Lurking like someone in a whodunnit!
Smoking cheap cigarettes now and again

That hat doesn't suit you, aged several years
Reminds me of the seventies racists
When people ignorantly voiced their fears
Through vile words on a regular basis.

Thankfully today, things are far less tense.
We've started working together; a team.
Doesn't stop the public from being less dense.
They think that a whippet is an ice cream

He who sports a flat cap, makes his own bread
Hides for hours and hours, working in his shed.

A Tanka and a couple more Haikus

The Smell
It was a bad smell

You left me sad with the lies

and finger pointing

terrible accusations

It was the dog that farted

Long Day

The day drags onwards

So tired I can't stay awake

perhaps I am dead?

Spot

Sore bit on my head

How did the spot develop?

I drink Clearasil

Seasons

The Seasons

Autumn avenue.

The wind blows leaves in my face.

Help! I cannot see!

The winter cold bites.

Harsh, searing the skin. It burns!

Splat! My face falls off.

Bloody daffodils,

custard yellow plague, it hides...

TWAT! Rake in my face.

Hot sun marred by rain

Beetroot red meets ghostly white

ARRGH! Burnt flaking skin.

Starstruck

The smooth cold surface offered a vague form of comfort, slightly soothing the pain in his face and arms. He made an attempt to lift his head, grimacing as he did, before deciding to place his cheek back on the cool tiled floor. Blinking his eyes open, the blurry surroundings slowly come into to focus. There are dark red markings on the painfully bright white tiles, instinctive curiosity makes him drag his fingers over the markings, jerking as a bolt of pain shoots down his left arm. 

The markings are blood, he guesses his blood due to the taste metallic in his mouth. He reluctantly swallows. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth searching to see if any teeth are missing. Some of the blood has seeped into the grout between the tiles. Slowly rubbing his fingers across the the tiles the red marks remain, dried onto the floor. How long has he been here? Does blood take long to dry? He moves a hand to his head, briefly wincing as he touches a tender area, rough and crispy with dried blood.

The smell of mildew is in his nostrils. At the other side of the room there is a toilet bowl, he wants to throw up. In his current condition it feels a mile away rather than eight feet. Looking up the edge of the sink peers over the top of the worktop. He grabs for the edge of the sink and he tries to pull himself up into a sitting position. A cry of agony rings out as he twists his body round. 

Memories were thrown up, the time he was punished for daring to stand up to his high school nemesis, who had regularly relieved him of his dinner money. He had spiked the bully's drink, stripped him naked and let him wake up under a table in the middle of a crowded dinner hall. In revenge the bully's older brother had gotten involved, the sound of his arm cracking, crushed in a door, still sounded fresh in his memory. 

Nothing was ever proven about the spiking. The brother was excluded from school, due to being caught in the act by a teacher. The bully however left him alone after that, deciding that he wasn't worth the trouble. Last he'd heard about either of them was a rumour that the brother was inside for G.B.H.

The pain was worse than the broken arm; a different memory came to the fore. A few years ago, his failure to embrace monogamy had caused a problem. The result was repeated attempts to kick off his testicles by his wife Mary. As the memory fades the pain he can now feels easily eclipses the pain from that particular scene, sadly though, it doesn't fade.

He feels worse sitting up, momentarily pondering lying down again. He glances over at the stained tiles and then down at his clothes, covered in blood. He wonders where things went wrong? Holding tightly to the edge of the sink, agony throbbing through his muscles, riding a wave of exhaustion that almost brings him back to the tiles. He fights against it with every ounce of strength he doesn't have. Letting out a howl, he throws himself back up on to his feet, nearly losing his balance, gripping tightly onto the sink to stop him crumpling into a heap. Lifting his head to the mirror to see the extent of them damage. Upon seeing his reflection he almost falls back in surprise, not quite sure if it is the pain or the sight of bloody mess that greets him.

He'd never intended for any of this to happen, he should have stuck to punching Big Brother contestants and TV talent show rejects, at least if he had, he would not be here. Perhaps he'd have been caught and sitting feeling sorry for himself in a police cell, which would be infinitely preferable to this.